Knowing

Setting out with a quiet inclination,

along a line imagined before it was seen,

threaded through the landscape,

like a thought seeking form.

Time rests lightly on the field,

Dew soft as breath on skin.

Steps skim the earth, heel then toe, a steady pulse.

At the edge, something stirs,

a flicker of wing as memory, rising and settling,

like a whisper across the water.

Thin as an unanswered question,

a compass without a needle.

The ground has been speaking.

Glimmering in gestures beside you,

and you,

moved by its language, move forward.